She straddled him, working his hardness into her wetness, groaning with great passion. 'Your God is not real, Jimmy. You can see that now, can't you?'
The words came easy to his tongue. 'Yes, yes!'
'He's a fake—denying you real pleasure.'
'Yes! He is a fake—He's not real.'
The music mingled with the incense, drifting around him, clouding his reason. The woman straddled him, lunging on his maleness, pumping up and down, telling him how perfect he was, how there had never been a man quite like him—ever.
She spoke the ultimate blasphemy, Jimmy repeating the hideous words, as he began believing them. He had never known this much pleasure.
Nydia, impaled on his manhood, leaned forward, touching her breasts to his chest, her mouth working on his. 'We'll punish Judy,' she whispered. 'You and I.' And she told him how.
Her mouth moved to his neck, her lips pulling back, teeth bared and needle-pointed as a snake's. Mortal beings knew nothing of this pleasure: the deliciousness of drinking warm, sweet/salty blood while in the throes of a shivering climax. She began to moan in climax as her teeth sank in Jimmy's neck, sucking a small amount of blood from him. She knew he would not notice the slight pain—until it was too late—far too late; until he was her personal servant, to do with as she pleased. Just as Sam Balon would be hers—someday.
In the living room, standing over the sobbing body of Canford, Wilder listened with extraordinary sensories to the witch. His smile was sardonic, evil, hateful. Nydia would go too far someday, he knew. Then he might have to destroy her—if the Master would permit it. But the Master was mildly amused by her antics, and Wilder knew the day would come when he himself would be replaced. And Nydia wanted his position very badly.
He pulled his attentions back to Canford. The fool still resisted, and Black was growing weary of the game. He looked at George Best. 'Take him to the Undead. Tie him securely and leave him for darkness.' Best licked his lips. 'The young girl you had last evening?'
'Yes?'
'Are you done with her?'
Wilder smiled. Best was obsessed with anal lovemaking, male or female, it made no difference. It was written in the Book, as were the darkest thoughts of every human on earth. 'You may have her for a time. After you take care of this matter.' he glanced down at Canford.
Best followed his eyes. 'May I—?'
'If you wish.'
Best smiled.
Thirty minutes later, Peter Canford, bent over and tied, was screaming out his pain and humiliation at this insult to his masculinity.
As the caravan drew nearer to the Sorenson ranch, signs of the devil's influence became more obvious. They saw strange carvings on trees, upside-down crosses, blasphemous writings on stones, and hideous stone statues of demons.
'No wonder Karl kept this place under fence and heavy guard,' Jane Ann said. The caravan had passed through a half dozen chain-link fences and guard posts just getting onto the huge ranch property.
The guards lay dead under the summer sun. They had been careless, and Sam was a master of the ambush, showing the others he could be a cold killing machine.
The guards on the close perimeter of the ranch house fell to Sam's knife, one by one, as his friends lay on a low ridge, watching him work.
'Why don't we just blow up the place?' Miles asked. 'Like you all did the first ranch?' he looked at Chester.
'Sam wants to inspect the Sorenson house. He thinks this is the Cult headquarters; where it began.'
Gunfire stopped the conversation, followed by a series of explosions. They watched the bunkhouse disintegrate under the fury of a dozen sticks of dynamite. Nothing inside could have lived through that destructive blast of TNT.
'Let's go!' Chester yelled, running for the trucks.
But it was almost over by the time Sam's group reached the yard. The minister had been a one man death squad. He had gunned down the people in the house as they ran into the yard after the first explosion.
'You!' Sorenson spat the word at Sam. He glared up at the preacher through eyes that mirrored hate. His hands clutched at his stomach, perforated with .45 caliber holes.
''Me,' Sam said calmly.
'They'll get you,' Sorenson spat up blood, 'You can't kill us all.'
'I can try,' Sam lifted the muzzle of the Thompson and squeezed the trigger. He looked at Chester. 'You people stay loose. Anything that moves, shoot it. I'm going in the house. I've got a bad feeling about that barn, so wait for me before you try going in.'
He walked into the house, knowing what he would find. He was not disappointed. The home was a repository for everything evil. Chains and whips and torture instruments lay everywhere. Contrivances of sexual perversion could be seen in every room. Huge artificial penises, torture racks, and much more. The sight disgusted Sam. He went from room to room, setting the house on fire.
As smoke billowed around him, Sam stepped out on the porch, watching Chester. The man moved from body to body sprawled in the yard, a .45 in his hand, putting one round in the head of each devil worshipper. Sam glanced at Wade, watching the man work. The editor's lips were pressed together, his face pale.
Sam knew Wade had never killed before this day. He stepped off the porch. 'Don't leave any alive. Kill them, then burn them.' He walked toward the barn.
'Wait!' Wade called. 'I'm coming with you.'
The minister's eyes were cool, a half-smile on his lips. 'Then be well cautioned, Wade. What you'll probably see in there, if they are in there, is something you'll have to live with for the rest of your life.'
'aking everything into consideration,' the man retorted, 'that might not be all that long a time.'
'Then come on.'
Wade looked behind him one more time. He looked a little ill; he could not take his eyes off Chester, or the manner in which the head exploded as the .45 caliber slug smashed through brain. The bodies seemed to dance on the ground under the impact. He had known Chester all his life, considering him to be one of the finest men in Fork County. An elder in the Church.
'You get used to it after a while,' Sam said 'At least, I did. And I think Chester did, too. In World War II. It's something every combat vet has to live with. Once a person has learned how to survive, and what must be done, that instinct lies just below the surface, very thinly covered with civilized veneer.'
Sam swung open the doors to the barn. A stale musty odor struck them. The odor of evil. The barn was dark.
'God!' Wade said.
'Godless,' Sam corrected. 'Like those people lying dead in the yard.'
'Why don't we just burn this barn down?' Wade asked, as the men stepped into the darkness.
'Because I want to meet those inside. And beat them.'
Outside, Chester had moved his people around the barn, covering all exits. Only one of the :men stood at ready: Jane Ann, with the slug-loaded shotgun in her hands. Faye, Anita, and Doris had received a couple of hours of instruction in the use of firearms, but they were not yet mentally ready to use them. Killing is entirely a state of mind, with very little physical effort required, and with most people, it takes time to prepare the mind for what society deems wrong. The women were still in a mild state of shock at the sight of so many dead bodies, and the seemingly ruthless manner in which Chester had disposed of the wounded.
Sam handed Wade his stake, picking up a pitchfork. His smile was hard. 'This won't leave much room for doubt.'
Wade moved to his left, away from Sam. A bit of hay and dust suddenly drifted down the loft. An almost inaudible creak of timber.
The barn doors slammed shut behind the men, plunging the barn into darkness. Only a few shards of dusty sunlight leaked through cracks in the barn walls.
